We don’t write
during Imani’s poetry class
I missed the last few days
when they had an open mic
I was stuck in the mess hall
for what I did to the wall
and I notice that a bunch of guys
I hadn’t seen before are in here
Poetry class is voluntary
but only the black and brown kids
were hereAnd now
we’re like colorful markers
bleeding over the lines
Still, everybody sits on their side of the dayroom
but Imani keeps going as if she doesn’t see
the white boys sneering at her
She hands out loose-leaf and pencils
and this is when—
while we’re waiting for directions
while we’re waiting for her to tell us
where the pencil point should land
where the first word should leave its mark
how our truth should look on the page
how our memories should sound off the page—
that the words want to pour out of me so badso bad
that I start to write
Dear Zenobia,
I wanted to shoot my shot so many times, but I didn’t want to look stupid. I didn’t want you to diss me. I thought you thought I was ugly. I know this will sound corny, but whoever named you Angel—
Amal—
would you like to share your writing?
Imani asks
I’m caught off guard
I read the words I just
wrote over to myself—
I don’t want to force you
but
I know you like to share
your rhymes
And I want all of you to know
that there’s no failing in art
There is no wrong art
There is no bad art
Just art
Just your truth—
she says
I pause for a second
thinking of Ms. Rinaldi
who failed me
over and over again
No failing in art, huh? I say
A’ight then
I lick my lips, swallow hard
and
read the words that were
supposed to be
for Zenobia’s eyes only
to these guys out loud
and they laugh
and they say
You sound too desperate—
Tell her to send some nudes—
Can you write me a letter to send to my girl?
and they laugh
and I laugh—
Imani laughs, too